


And So We Too Shall Crumble

by monopolizeme



Series: He Was Pointing At the Moon but I Was Looking At His Hand [6]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, First Time, M/M, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-09 18:32:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/776650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monopolizeme/pseuds/monopolizeme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He looks up at Derek, a little desperately. Because Derek may not speak often and Stiles may talk too much but he isn’t any good with words either. Only he lets them spill recklessly from his mouth more often than not, without a thought of how they may sound or what sentences they may form. But this is important now, always important with Derek and Stiles doesn’t know how to tell him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And So We Too Shall Crumble

 

Rain is slanting against the window panes, soft and quiet, as if it is not really there to stay, just saying hello and passing on through. But it blocks out the sounds of the side streets and the people moving through the outside walkways that Stiles had seen earlier. The rain cloaks around them, muffles the outside world and it is just them and the room feels too still and Stiles wonders if the air has become a physical thing and if that is why he feels unable to move.

“This was a mistake.”

There’s no moisture in the room, it’s like the rain has gobbled it all up.

“This place too?” Stiles asks, hoping for something that he knows is not true but the thought of what Derek means – what Derek is trying to tell him – Stiles cannot fight off the fear and trepidation coiling around his bones.

Derek sets his mouth impossibly tighter and his eyes look almost predatory when they set on Stiles.

“No. _This._ ” He says and Stiles desperately wishes that Derek would his words more. Because Stiles is so confused and so tired of not knowing, of not knowing _anything_ , for days now and Derek won't tell him anything and Stiles doesn't know what he is supposed to be doing, what he should or should not say or press but it comes out of him anyway.

“Why did you bring me here then?”

Derek stiffens. And for a moment he looks absolutely livid, the dull glow from the lamp flickering off red-tinged eyes before Derek tampers it down again.

“I shouldn’t have.” he seethes, the tension practically vibrating from his skin. “It was a mistake to bring you here and-”

“No,” Stiles says quietly. He steps towards Derek, who glares at him threateningly but Stiles doesn't care. Because they are _not_ going back to the way they were, they aren't those two people anymore and so Stiles isn't afraid. He's not afraid of _touch_ or Derek, especially not Derek, even now as he growls low behind his teeth when Stiles sets his hands on his waist and steps him backwards, knees and feet tangling in the clumsiness of it.

“You're not running away from this.” Stiles murmurs. He coaxes Derek back until he's pressed up against the wall, body wedged between the side of the dresser and the motel plaster. And Stiles is breathing against Derek’s collarbone, soft and steady, even as his own heartbeat flutters erratically in his throat.

 “Derek,” Stiles says pointedly, hands firm on Derek’s waist. He knows that he’s not strong enough to pin Derek in place but he puts the effort into his grip to let Derek know the he means to, if he could.

Derek braces himself against the silent demand, his body stiffening and closing off. He raises his chin, turning his face away and eyeing Stiles,  _challenging_  him to  _push_.

Stiles loosens his grip, but only a little, lets his fingers relax so the tendons do not hurt as much against the strain, but he holds on and keeps Derek in place against the wall.

“Where are we going with this?” Stiles asks quietly and his eyes are almost level with Derek’s, who is still pushing up against the wall, trying to gain height on Stiles. “You can’t just keep dragging me around like this. In secret. We’re-“ he swallows around the word, because it still feels a little wrong to say it out loud, to put a label on them, “a couple now. You have to tell me things. Not everything, because I know that’s difficult for you and I am trying not to push so much. But I think I can ask this one thing. I think I deserve to know, now that I am an active participant in it. I don’t ask where you go when you leave Beacon Hills on your own and disappear for days but now, you _asked_ me to come along with you. You asked me and that means something, I think, but I don’t know what’s going on in your head and I won’t know unless you tell me. You chose not to be alone in this, whatever this is, so now you have to let me in.”

Stiles is trying to keep his body from pressing into Derek but it’s difficult not to, he’s trying to appear as non-threatening as possible and keep his voice soft because he thinks, that beneath all of that teaming rage and taut skin and hard rough exterior, that Derek might actually be scared. And Stiles doesn’t understand why and that is beginning to grow more terrifying with each breath Stiles sucks into his lungs. He thinks he might begin to panic if Derek doesn’t  _talk_.

“Why did you bring me?” he asks again.

And that seems to be the thing to snap Derek back to acknowledging Stiles because he grabs Stiles’ wrists, too much pressure and Stiles winces, and twists them away, moving with deft speed from the corner and into the center of the room.

“I needed to _know_ ,” Derek hisses, restless and cagey as he stalks the small space, and he looks like he might crawl out of his skin at any moment, as if the wolf might claw its way through flesh and bone and snap its jaws furiously.

“You needed to  _know_?” Stiles echoes incredulously. He gives a laugh, dry like sandpaper and it sounds awful even to his own ears. He doesn’t know why he is reacting in such a way, but Derek is twitching like he is resisting the urge to slam Stiles against the wall, the way he used to back when he didn’t _care_ and Stiles always ended up bruised and angry at Derek’s harsh, abrasive actions.  And the thought that Derek may be retreating _back_ , hurts almost as if Derek had physically reached out and struck him. “What, is this some kind of _test_ to see if I can handle being with you with no outlet of escape to distract me?”

Derek doesn’t snark back as Stiles expects him to. He doesn’t roll his eyes as if Stiles has just allowed the most idiotic bit of nonsense to spew mindlessly from his mouth; he doesn’t exhale sharply and he doesn’t give Stiles one of his infamous glares; he doesn’t do anything at all.

And that causes something in Stiles to sharpen, clench tight all over and he is suddenly so very cold because Derek isn’t trying to deny what Stiles said. Instead he tenses, halts his pacing and his hands clench at his sides, the muscles in his upper arms bunching beneath the tight stretch of fabric, face twisting into a darkened scowl.

Stiles blanches.

“That’s it?” he whispers. “That’s what this is about? To see if I can handle…” he searches for words, lips pressing together because he is suddenly so infuriated that he could punch Derek. “to see if I actually  _wanted_  to be with you?”

Derek narrows his eyes at Stiles.

“You love finding new toys to fix,” Derek says, voice dangerously quiet, lips shaping the disgustful words with slow deliberation and it’s the cruelest thing Stiles could have imagined to hear from him.

“So we’re just driving to fucking nowhere!?” Stiles exclaims, throwing his hands out. He’s shaking now and he can’t even bother to stop; he’s so angry he can taste it, tight in his throat and against the back of his mouth. “That’s your brilliant plan to get me to see if I want to be with you or not? Because that – that really sucks, Derek. That was not one of your brightest ideas. In fact, I’d probably file that right up along with you taking on a coven of witches single-handedly. That was also pretty brilliant in a really non-brilliant way, if you recall.”

Derek stalks into Stiles’ space, all bristling intent and red-tinged eyes. He knocks away Stiles’ hand when he tries to push it against Derek’s chest and snarls, “And you’re the seventeen-year-old boy trying to get into bed with a twenty-four-year-old werewolf murder suspect. You’re not winning any points for brilliance either, Stiles.”

But Stiles doesn’t take the bait. He rolls his eyes and gives an exaggerated shake of his head.

“Fuck you, that’s old material. Give me something new, Derek, give something real. Like maybe how you’re too fucking terrified of belonging to someone that you’ve gone off on this crazy and stupid escapade to drive me away.”

Derek’s mouth is firm line in the murderous shadows of his face.

“So is it working.” His voice is low and challenging.

Stiles huffs, the tension still tight and straining in his shoulders. He’s never hated Derek before and he doesn’t now, but he thinks that he might be close to the emotion, only it’s tighter, fiercer and hurts so much he can hardly hear his own thoughts. He lurches at Derek, clasps his face in both hands and kisses him, open and rough and Derek’s staggers back in surprise. Stiles presses his fingers into Derek’s skin and sucks Derek’s tongue into his mouth, forces Derek’s head to twist to better angle the slide of their mouths. He shoves his leg between Derek’s thighs and-

Derek shoves, _hard_ , with enough force that Stiles is sprawled across the floor, his palms stinging at the contact as he stares up at Derek in wide surprise.

“ _Don’t._ ” Derek hisses, chest shuddering, hands flexing by his sides. He looks too young suddenly, despite the hard jut of his cheekbones, the dark shadows beneath his eyes; young and something that might break beneath Stiles’ fingers if he reached out to touch him. “Just- don’t, Stiles. Don’t make everything so fucking  _difficult_.”

Stiles shakes his head, a faint distant movement. He tries to push away that small feeling of hurt, at being rejected and all that anger dissipates, leaving him feeling small and confused. His fingers twitch against the rough thin carpet.

“I’m not- I didn’t mean anything, Derek.” He says. He eases to his feet, eyes never leaving Derek’s face, and his movements are slow and cautious, as if he might frighten Derek away.

Derek stiffens when Stiles steps closer.

“Look, Derek. I just-“ he doesn’t know what to say, how to broach these words that have twisted up in his throat. “I want you to know that this is real to me. I meant what I said to you that day on the porch – I want you to belong to me and not because you are so difficult and that that would be some kind of accomplishment in winning you over. That’s utter bullshit and you know that doesn’t mean a thing to me. I just-“

He looks up at Derek, a little desperately. Because Derek may not speak often and Stiles may talk too much but he isn’t any good with words either. Only he lets them spill recklessly from his mouth more often than not, without a thought of how they may sound or what sentences they may form. But this is important now, always important with Derek and Stiles doesn’t know how to tell him.

“I want this, I do. I don’t care that you’ve dragged me on a tour of seedy motels all along the upper west coast – I don’t. I just wanted to know why, that’s all Derek. I just wanted you to let me in. You never let me in.”

“It’s easy for you,” Derek says, and Stiles thinks that he might be insinuating Stiles’ ability to talk but then he bites out, “It’s easy right now because we aren’t being faced with any grave threat, not a terrible one at least, and it’s easy for you to want to be with me. You’re living your life as a simple teenager with me on the side and it’s easy because no one is dying or being torn apart.”

Stiles gapes at him, tries to let those words register, tries to understand the implication of meaning behind what Derek has said.

“You think-“ he whispers, wets his mouth. “You think this is just… a fling or, something fun? That I can’t take this seriously, you and I-“ he makes a vague gesturing motion between the two of them, “because I’m not being faced with the reality of how fucked up the world is around us? I haven’t forgotten, Derek. I haven’t forgotten Kate and what she did to you, or Gerard or the way Allison tried to kill Scott or that Erica was killed by a wild pack of Alphas-“ Derek flinches at this, the hard exterior cracking a little and Stiles rushes on, “Of course I fucking remember all of it. I remember what it felt like, I remember the terror, the suffocating feeling of drowning when the kanima attacked and how I thought that it was going to rip my father apart right in front of me.” Stiles is gritting his teeth together so hard that his jaw is just a terrible aching presence in his face and his eyes feel too large against his eyelids. He grabs angrily at the collar of Derek’s jacket, holds on tight when Derek snarls and tries to shove him away again.

“Listen to me, Derek!” He jerks his chin up into Derek’s face. “This is real. I’m not frolicking around in some blissed out state thinking that it’s all sunshine and daisies. It fucking sucks, a lot of the time, it does. Especially when I come home to you crawling through my window and leaking blood all over my sheets. It’s terrifying and it’s the worst fucking feeling in the world and guess what – I’ve chosen you despite all of that. I’ve faced reality. It’s time you fucking did so yourself.”

The air feels too sharp to inhale into this throat, like it’s made of glass and might shatter around them, shards of splintered edges to gouge out their eyes, bite into their tongues and make it impossible to speak at all. Stiles is inhaling in ragged breaths, and the air feels too thin, not enough oxygen, too much glass, too hard and difficult to pull into his lungs.

Derek closes his eyes, breathing slow and measured and Stiles gives him time, for once doesn’t push.

“It’s not the same,” Derek says, concentrating with pinched brows, “It’s not the same as before.”

“What do you mean?” Stiles asks softly.

Derek’s hands come to curl over Stiles’, still tangled in the soft black leather.

“It wasn’t the same as before. When all that happened.” He opens his eyes and they seem so much paler than they usually are, tiny flecks of green and gold coiling around one another. “You didn’t – I was just a werewolf to you before. No one of importance. And I am always going to be the center of danger, Stiles, I’m the Alpha, it’s not going to go away. We weren’t – it wasn’t like this for us before, with the kanima and Gerard. You say that watching your father almost die nearly ruined you – do you want to live like that with me? Because that’s how it’s going to be. It’s never going to be easy.”

Stiles relaxes his fingers a little, tries to shift them against Derek’s shirt so he can feel the contact of skin and Derek’s heat.

“You’re wrong,” he murmurs. “I cared back then. Maybe not the same as I do now, but I did. The thought of you dying – that hurt, I never wanted that.”

Derek shakes his head.

“Not the same,” he insists.

Stiles sighs, rests his forehead against Derek’s cheek.

“I want this. You have to believe me, Derek, you have to trust that this is real for me.”

The quietness slowly stretches around them. It seems like a tangible thing, prying between their bodies even though they are so close.

Derek nods, stepping back, eyes cast away like Stiles is something that hurts to look at.

And Stiles isn’t sure what to do. Because he doesn’t know if this is okay now, if anything has actually been resolved or if they are in the exact same place as where they started. It’s always one step forward with Derek and three stumbles back. He wants to touch Derek, he wants to kiss him or just feel him and he knows that that’s probably wrong, that his body shouldn’t being all flushed and twitchy but this feels important, and he wants to know that Derek understands. He’s not sure if he’s allowed to want that, to feel Derek’s skin beneath his hands and hear the little broken noises that Derek makes but words feel so empty and used up now and he doesn’t have anything else but touch left in him.

He takes a step towards Derek, makes to ask if it’s alright but Derek turns his face even further away and says, “I’m going out.”

His hand is on the door handle, back turned and Stiles feels too thin and fragile and the skin across the back of his neck is cold and shivery.

“Do you still want this?” he asks quietly.

Derek stills. He’s all hard lines and angles, broad shoulders held taut beneath the stretch of fabric. Stiles sees the way he thins his mouth, as if fighting something and he doesn’t say Yes or No or face Stiles.

The door clicks quietly behind him.

-

It’s hours later and Stiles is not asleep. The room is quiet and dark, the rain stopped but Stiles doesn’t like the silence, it makes him itch, up his arms and at the back of his ankles. He’s curled on his side on the bed, still in his clothes and above the blankets, breathing soft and quiet despite the ache. It hasn’t dissipated, that throbbing pulse that makes his heart feel too tight, his throat dry and his back feels empty and exposed without Derek pressed against him.

It’s been hours now, since Derek’s left. And he doesn’t know if he should be worried about that, if he should be texting Derek just to make sure that he’s alive. But he’s not sure if Derek wants to return and there’s only one bed and maybe Derek doesn’t even want to be next to him right now. He’s not sure if Derek’s decided that this wasn’t worth it, any of it.

His body stiffens sharply when the door hinges open. But he recognizes the soft thump of boots, the almost-too-quiet shift of limbs and the creak of leather as the door is pushed closed. He squeezes his eyes shut, although he knows that Derek can tell by his heartbeat that is not nearly close to being asleep.

Bootlaces hiss as they are pulled loose, and Stiles hears the dry rasp of fabric as Derek slips out of his shirt. And then there is that give in the mattress, the slight sag beneath Derek’s weight as he settles beside Stiles. For a moment he lays there on his back, not touching Stiles but breathing quietly, his heat gently curling against Stiles’ shoulders.

Stiles thinks, _why did you come back?_ why, if only to keep them in this state of terrible unease. But then Derek is folding himself around Stiles, knees tucking behind Stiles’, arms slipping beneath and over Stiles’ ribcage as he molds the hard planes of his body with Stiles’.

His breathing is soft and even against Stiles’ neck, and Stiles wishes that he could tense up, that he could push away Derek’s hands from where they settle against his stomach, beneath his shirt but Derek is _there_ , against his bones and in his skin and it is all he can do to keep from trembling.

Derek says quietly, “I do want this, you have to know how much I want this. I wouldn’t be here with you if I didn’t.”

Stiles can feel the words formed against the nape of his neck, a damp brush of emotion that curls behind his ear.

Stiles twists in Derek’s arms, and Derek holds him still so that Stiles can only manage to meet his gaze.

“You mean that?” He says, voice low.

Derek nods.

“You’re not just saying it because it’s easy? Because it’s easy just to say words that will make me think that everything can be okay now?”

Derek’s mouth is a solemn line.

“Nothing is easy with you, Stiles.” he says quietly. And Stiles knows how much truth is in that.

He touches Derek’s face.

“It’s easy for me,” he tells Derek. “Because being with you is the most terrifying experience of my life. Because sometimes being near you hurts so much I feel like I can’t even breathe. Because not being near you hurts even more and I know that I want you despite it all. It’s that painful and that easy for me. That is how I know that I want this. That is how I know that I want _you_.”

Derek looks at him now and there is no way Stiles can hide beneath that stare.

“Do you want this now?” He asks, eyes serious.

Stiles swallows, because Derek’s hands feel like they are burning imprints into his skin.

He nods.

“Say it, Stiles. Tell me you want this.”

And Stiles nods again, a stronger urgency in the movement. He places his hand back against Derek’s hip, feels the muscle jump beneath his palm.

“I want this. I want this, Derek. I want this with _you_.”

Derek breathes out roughly, as if Stiles’ words have forced Derek to succumb to something terrible and Stiles feels a little hurt at that, because he doesn’t understand why that would be. Derek’s hands slowly skate up Stiles’ ribs, hiking the shirt up further.

“I might not be gentle,” he confesses, voice like sandpaper. He presses his face into Stiles’ neck, inhaling deeply like he wants to devour Stiles by scent alone. “I might not- _god_ Stiles, please make sure you’re okay with this because if this ends up being something you regret later on-“

And Stiles _understands_. He braces a thumb against Derek’s lips, halting the flow of words.

“You need to stop trying to protect me so much,” he tells him softly.

“I _have_ to,” Derek responds, the words coming out raggedly.

Stiles gives a little smile at that, at the fact that Derek can become so undone by him, which is kind of endearing in a way, if not so terribly awful.

“I know,” Stiles murmurs against Derek’s forehead, tries to coax Derek to lift his face. “And I promise I’m ok with it. I’m really ok. More than ok. So you don’t have to go about acting like you’ve done something terrible – are _about_ to do something terrible. Because you’re not and I want this. I would tell you if I didn’t. You have to trust me that I would let you know if I felt that you were forcing me into something that I didn’t want.”

Stiles can feel Derek tense at that, as if Stiles somehow managed to stumble into an open wound that Stiles was never meant to discover. But Stiles has always known about it, even as it has remained quietly stowed away into the darker crevices of what comprises Derek Hale. They rarely speak of Derek’s family, but they even more so rarely speak of _her_ , Kate Argent; Stiles has always known better.

“You know I’m telling the truth, don’t you, Derek?” Stiles asks quietly, and he realizes suddenly that he’s terrified of Derek’s answer. Because Stiles knows that he is not lying but his heartbeat is trembling and he is afraid that Derek will misinterpret what that means. That he will think that Stiles is only trying to appease him, make Derek feel better, and Stiles doesn’t even know how to deal with that.

“Derek-“

“I _know_ ,” Derek says, breathes out against Stiles’ cheek, long and slow and Stiles doesn’t miss the shudder that comes with that admission.

“You believe me?”

Derek nods, still not looking at Stiles, face tucked against Stiles cheek and the angle is so awkward, his shoulders still pressed against Derek’s chest and Stiles wants to twist around so he can clasp Derek’s face in his hands and _look_ at him.

“Do you trust me?” Stiles asks, and he can’t seem to release any air from his lungs, his whole body rigid in Derek’s arms.

He knows the levity of such a question, knows what it holds, what he is asking. And he knows that he doesn’t have any right to ask such a thing of Derek and he feels terribly guilty now that he has. Because Derek has been betrayed more times than Stiles can count and wounds like those do not heal over easily, or perhaps not even at all, not even with time. Sometimes the scars are too deep to be able to fix themselves, just settle into the bone and tissue and harden into something permanent that continues to bruise when pulled at the wrong way. He knows why Derek keeps himself so tightly guarded, why he is comprised of broken fragments of glass and sharp edges that tear Stiles’ skin when he tries to reach out and touch Derek.

There is a silence that seems to stretch on forever, until Stiles cannot breathe anymore and then Derek nods, once. It’s a firm jerky movement, full of intent and the strength of Derek’s gaze when it meets Stiles’ eyes startles him.

“I do.” Derek says, gritty and thick, like it is taking everything within him to speak the words aloud. “I do trust you.”

Stiles swallows, because this is _important_. He may be reckless and without care for boundaries but he can still tell when he’s stumbled into something tremulous and fragile, and he’s afraid that if he speaks too quickly he will break this, or appear as if he is squandering the seriousness of what Derek is giving him, _allowing_ himself to give.

“Can I kiss you?” He whispers, and that is probably not the best thing he could ask but he needs to let Derek know and he doesn’t know what words to use to convey to Derek that he isn’t taking this lightly, that he’s just as terrified of this as Derek is.

But he must have said something right, or not awful at least, because Derek’s lips are curving at the edges, and his eyes are warming into something that makes Stiles feel as if he is all Derek has ever wanted, that he is _enough_. And that is terrifying and incredible all at the same time.

“Yeah,” he says softly.

It’s a tentative kiss at first, Stiles trying to figure out what he is allowed to do, allowed to take and Derek seems to sense this, because he opens his mouth against Stiles’ and Stiles has to draw in a tight breath because that feels _amazing_ , especially when Derek allows Stiles to shift onto his back and is now pressing down on top of him, heavy weight against his chest and arms and his mouth.

Stiles makes a noise in the back of his throat, manages to pull his right arm free and push his fingers through Derek’s hair, nails raking against his scalp and then Derek’s mouth isn’t gentle anymore, fiercely hard and demanding as he forces Stiles’ head back against the pillow and Stiles has to keep from moaning it feels so good. Derek knows just how to slide his mouth against Stiles, how to tilt his head back and open him up so he can take all he wants. And then he is _shoving_ Stiles up the bed with ridiculous strength and Stiles has to press his hand flat against the wall above his head to brace himself from crashing into it. He bends his fingers slightly, gains purchase and shoves back against Derek, tongue pushing past teeth and far into the open hot cavern of Derek’s mouth.

Stiles feels the harsh vibration rumble through Derek’s chest and it sounds so savage, like Derek is struggling to keep himself from breaking Stiles beneath him. But Stiles wants him to, _god_ does he want Derek to wreck him.

“Take this  _off_ ,” Derek orders gruffly, yanking at the hem of Stiles’ shirt and Stiles hears the stitches rip under the duress – and that really shouldn’t excite him so much. But he is nodding vigorously, scrambling to pull the infuriating garment up his arms but his limbs have forgotten how to be arms, the bones all loose and disorientated. He snags the collar of his shirt around his chin and he can’t see for the fabric around his face. There is a moment where he is just stuck, arms twisted above his head and he feels quite pathetic because really, _nothing_ about this is sexy. He has managed to be the _epitome_ of all that is non-sexy.

He hears Derek chuckling softly and Stiles’ ears flush at the tips.

“You’re ridiculous,” Derek says in awe, a whisper against Stiles’ mouth, beneath this shirt and he presses his lips softly against the shape of Stiles’ disgruntled frown. Blunt fingernails drag up the ladder of Stiles’ ribcage and Stiles makes a needy whine in the back of his throat, twisting up against Derek’s hands.

Derek rumbles approvingly, hands flattening warm, fingers splaying out and when his thumb presses idly against Stiles’ left nipple, Stiles hisses and thrusts up against him.

“Derek- I swear to god-”

“Okay,” says Derek, fingers curling beneath the stubborn collar still looped around Stiles’ neck and dragging it off.

Stiles’ face is red and splotchy, cheeks slightly damp from where his own breath had been trapped against his skin.

“Shit, Derek, just-“ he surges in, attacking Derek’s mouth in frantic clumsy kisses, too much teeth and tongue but Derek just lets him take what he wants, leaning back easily as Stiles flips them and scrambles to keep as much skin still connected as possible.

Stiles breathes out shakily, fingers trembling at Derek’s jaw, because his heart is somewhere in his throat now and Derek is fitted between his thighs, his hand a steady pressure against Stiles’ naked stomach and there is so much meaning and intent in these touches that Stiles is for a moment, utterly terrified. They’re going to do this, they’re going to have _sex_ , finally and now that it’s an actual real thing, Stiles realizes that he’s more than a little afraid.

“We’re doing this?” he whispers, as if there could be any other outcome to this now.

“Yes.” Derek tells him. He slides his hand slowly to the curve of Stiles’ waist, squeezes slightly and the intensely predatory gaze in his eyes from before has softened. “We’re doing this.”

Stiles meets Derek’s eyes and Derek is looking at him as if everything from this point onwards rests on Stiles’ response, that Derek would stop if Stiles asked him to. And that makes it easier, helps Stiles breathe _out_ , although a little nervously but it’s less terrifying, knowing that it’s _Derek_. And he has always felt safe with Derek, feels safe with him _now_.

“Okay, Stiles?” Derek asks quietly.

Something in Derek’s voice makes Stiles shiver and he has to lick his lips to keep from shaking in Derek’s hands. He thinks that he’s going to come apart and Derek hasn’t even done anything to him – just holding him by the waist, keeping him firmly settled atop of his chest and Stiles can feel how hard Derek is, his erection grinding against Stiles’ own arousal every time Stiles shifts against him.

And Stiles thinks, a little insanely, _what the hell are you waiting for?_ and laughs at how stupid he is because _god_ , does he want this.

He draws in a shaky breath and now he’s grinning like an idiot, excitement rolling off his skin and making him jittery and Derek opens his mouth and lets out a laugh that sounds a little breathless, all the tension leaking from his body.

It’s beautiful, to see Derek smiling, to see his eyes grow bright and that almost hurts to look at, his eyes are so _bright_ and Stiles wonders if this is what Derek used to look like, before the world became so terribly cruel and aged his bones to something old and weighted with anger and guilt.

Derek grabs the back of his head in his large palm and catches the thin skin of Stiles’ neck with his teeth, right above the pulse point and Stiles makes a startled noise, throat arching as he grasps onto Derek’s ridiculously strong shoulders.  His feet slide desperately against the sheets as he squirms beneath Derek’s mouth, teeth dragging across his belly and Stiles feels himself clench all over at that. God, he’s so wet and that should feel a little gross, trapped within his underwear and the tight pull of denim but then Derek’s fingers curl beneath the waistband of his jeans and Stiles’ brain fractures a little.

He thinks that he shouldn’t be so nervous about this, because they’ve done this before, the touching and almost nakedness and Stiles has felt Derek’s hands on his skin before, knows how they touch, all hot warm pressure and slightly roughened skin – but he is nervous still, can’t stop the shaky laugh that breaks from his mouth as Derek eases his pants past his feet and tugs off his socks. And then Derek is leaning back and unbuttoning his own jeans, zipper sliding down and broad palms flattening over his thighs as he pushes down his pants and boxers in one sweep. Stiles wants to say something, to try and ease the tension vibrating down his spine but then Derek is pressing him down into the mattress again, full body and smooth and their skin slides against one another and Stiles breathes out slowly, into Derek’s mouth.

Derek’s hands are gentler than Stiles thought they would be, fingernails raking down Stiles’ sides as he nips and sucks a pattern of flushed bruises over Stiles’ chest, soft and slow, humming in the back of his throat every time Stiles jerks beneath him. He mouths at the joint where Stiles’ hip meets his body and Stiles shivers at that, hitches in a tight breath when Derek runs his tongue up the full length of Stiles’ cock.

“It’s alright,” Derek says, sucking softly at the head and Stiles has to bite down on his wrist to keep the sounds trapped in his mouth when Derek runs his tongue along the slit. “Try to relax.”

Stiles swallows.

“I’m not sure how that’s supposed to happen right now,” he confesses and his voice cracks. He’d feel embarrassed about that, he really would, especially now but Derek is looking up at him open and warm, his chin resting on Stiles’ navel and Stiles just wants Derek to kiss him again and make him sound even more wrecked.

“Come here,” Derek says soothingly, spreading Stiles’ legs apart a little further and Stiles lets Derek position him how he wants and he’s so grateful for that because Stiles doesn’t think that he could get his limbs to move even if he wanted to. His skin feels too hot and too tight and he keeps making frantic garbled noises every time Derek curls his hand around the base of his cock and squeezes.

“That’s it, Stiles,” he whispers, voice grating on Stiles’ nerve-endings and causing heat to spill down his thighs and Stiles cries out when Derek twists his wrist and jerks him off perfect and _tight_.

Derek pushes up unto his knees and leans forward, breath ghosting across Stiles' palm that's still pressed against his mouth.

He feels Derek’s hand curl around his wrist, draws it away slowly and then Derek is saying, “Open your mouth for me, Stiles,” and Stiles doesn’t even bother to ask why, just parts his lips and his eyes jolt open as Derek slides two fingers deep into his mouth.  And _oh,_ Stiles knows where this is going. He meets Derek’s gaze and holds it as he sucks his fingers in, coating them with saliva and Stiles is sure that he sees a glint of fang beneath Derek’s upper lip when he hollows his cheeks and tips his head _back_ , baring the long column of his throat.

Derek kisses him again when he drags his fingers free and it’s rough and hungry and all perfect friction.

“Good,” Derek whispers, eyes glinting red for a moment before pulling away, his face disappearing from view as he mouths his way down Stiles’ chest, nipping gently and a little too sharply when he reaches the soft skin at Stiles’ stomach and Stiles can’t help but arch into that greedily.

“Okay, Stiles?” Derek asks, and Stiles doesn’t need him to clarify what he means, just holds his breath and nods.

It's slightly uncomfortable at that first press, and Stiles’ hips leap from the mattress, heat sparking at the base of his spine. Derek eases out when he reaches the first knuckle, letting Stiles _breathe_ before pushing back in and Stiles wriggles against the intrusion. His body feels tight and confused, a strange invasion that isn't entirely welcome. But Derek keeps crooning softly, even as eyes his flash red when Stiles gasps and bears down on Derek’s finger. The small curse that breaks from Derek’s mouth at that makes Stiles’ body flush eagerly, because those are noises that he can definitely get used to. He spreads his feet a little further on the mattress, opening up for Derek and the second finger burns a little but _oh god_ , if Derek keeps twisting his fingers like that - Stiles chokes out a gasp and his head slams against the wall because he's shaking now, tiny delicious tremors snaking up his spine.

He’s half hard and he thinks he could come if Derek touched him now.

"God, you're so beautiful," Derek whispers and Stiles tries to shake his head, wants to say no, no, because it's not him it's Derek and it's Derek now that is slowly taking him apart. "I want to ruin you so much," he's saying, thick and tight and Stiles arches up at that, as Derek wraps his hand around his cock and slowly pulls him off.

"Jesus, _Derek_."

“Please say I can, Stiles-“

And Stiles gasps as Derek pumps his fingers into him, pushing and stretching and Stiles can't even define where the pain and pleasure of it all meets, as Derek fucks him with his fingers and jerks him off and Stiles cries out, hips lurching off the bed as seizes up and comes over Derek’s fingers and against his naked chest.

Stiles whines softly as Derek slowly pulls his fingers out, a noise of disappointment that he doesn’t even recognize. But it feels empty without Derek’s fingers inside him and it takes him a quiet moment to parse that realization, of how much he wants Derek inside him now that he’s experienced it, that feeling of wholeness he never knew that he was without.

"I think you've broken me," he manages weakly.

Derek chuckles, pressing a soft kiss against the corner of Stiles’ open panting mouth.

"Not yet," he promises and Stiles moans, not even caring how wanton that makes him sound. 

His fingers reach for Derek’s face and he kisses him again, wet and sloppily because his limbs are too heavy and sluggish and he can't even get his mouth to function properly.

"I really need you to fuck me, Derek." he mumbles, loves the way Derek's body clenches all over. "I need to hear how you sound when you come. God, please, I need to see _your face_."

And Derek makes a punched out groan at that, burying his face into Stiles’ throat and shuddering _deep_ in his body. Stiles knows how much Derek likes to push, shove Stiles into the mattress and just take and take but he’s holding back now, his arms shaking by Stiles’ sides as he braces himself above him.

“Damn it, Stiles,” he says roughly, teeth scraping along Stiles’ jaw. “You can’t say things like that and expect me to keep it together.”

And Stiles doesn’t want him to, he really doesn’t.

Derek exhales loudly and Stiles gives a slow smile at that, at seeing Derek actually get rattled by this. Then Derek shoves himself off of Stiles, a quick forceful movement, and he’s leaning over the side of the bed. There’s the drag of a zipper as Derek rummages through his duffle bag and it’s only a moment of absence but Stiles feels like his skin is squirming against his bones, all restless and eager. And then Derek is back, shifting over the mattress and Stiles grabs for him desperately, a hunger pulsing in his veins and thick in his bones as he tugs urgently at Derek’s arms, _Now, now, come here now_ , dragging Derek on top of him. Stiles kisses him over and over and Derek just lets him, takes in all the little sounds Stiles makes before settling his fingers on Stiles’ jaw, gently easing away.

He chuckles, eyes glinting with amusement and _lust_ , so strong that Stiles can feel it twist deliciously in his belly.

Derek settles himself between Stiles’ legs, still splayed open on the bed and glistening with sweat from his recent orgasm. Stiles catches sight of a small bottle in Derek’s hands, which he expected and is immensely grateful for, because there is no way he was going to be able to endure Derek fucking him on nothing but spit alone. Not on the first time at least, although it's something to consider for further down the road. 

Stiles’ cheeks flush at the thought.

Derek’s hands settle on Stiles’ hips, his thumbs rubbing over the jut of bone and his eyes are warm with affection when he looks down at Stiles.

“Still with me?”

Stiles licks his lips, mouth so stupidly dry even though he’s had Derek’s tongue in there only a few seconds ago. He doesn’t miss the way Derek’s eyes flicker to his lips at the moment, and he’s watching Stiles with such intensity that it is all Stiles can do but give a quick nod.

“Yeah,” he says hoarsely.

Derek gives an acknowledging tilt of his chin.

“Roll over,” he murmurs.

“Not this way?” Stiles asks, tries to ignore to small twinge of disappointment at not being able to _see_ Derek.

Derek shakes his head. “It’ll be easier for you,” he says and Stiles relinquishes, allows Derek to turn him over on the sheets, pull him up to his hands and knees and drag him _back_ into him.

Derek curls his hands around Stiles’ waist, firm and steady and Stiles lets out a long wobbly breath because there’s no turning back now, one last tumble down the rabbit hole and Stiles wants nothing more. He can feel the tremor of excitement and trepidation climb through the ladder of his ribs, sift around each bone and pressing into his lungs because this is _them_ , now finally and it is everything Stiles has ever wanted.

He tenses at the first nudge of Derek’s cock, the thick hot slide of Derek breaching the ring of muscle and pushing inside of him and Stiles shivers, his mouth falling open wordlessly as his head bows to hang between his shoulders. Derek’s fingers are pulse pressing into his flesh as he sinks deeper into the tight stretch of Stiles, panting heavily over the curve of Stiles' bowed spine. And Stiles doesn’t even think he could move if he wanted to, because he feels so _full_ inside and it’s more overwhelming than Stiles ever could have prepared himself for.

Stiles whispers _Derek_ , and then there are hot kisses being scattered over his shoulder blades and whispers that Stiles cannot understand.  Derek’s voice sounds rough with concentration and he's rocking into Stiles, not fast but demanding and Stiles’ body trembles violently at the promise of _more_.

“Derek?” he whispers, a plea, because he's cold and shivery now even though it feels like his insides are burning and being bruised and tangled up but the air is chilly as it skirts across the sweat sheen across his back, leaving him feeling open and vulnerable.

“Yes, Stiles,” Derek rasps, and god he's pumping harder into Stiles now and Stiles is making short cracked moans and gasps and his voice catches high and yes, now, _oh yes_ , his body understands what's happening, what Derek is doing to it, especially when he grinds his hips low and catches Stiles in that spot that makes Stiles cry out and clench tight on Derek’s pulsing cock.

Derek bites out a curse at that, fingers digging deeper and hips snapping brutally hard for a quick moment before relaxing back into a steady rhythm.

“Oh god, Derek please-" and Stiles voice sounds wet and broken and he doesn't need to say more because Derek understands, of course, always. He drapes himself over Stiles’ body, warm and possessive and _there_ , and Stiles can feel the heat from Derek’s chest envelope him. Derek reaches down and braces his right hand on the bed, over Stiles’ fist clenched in the sheets.

“Stiles,” he says, and Stiles manages to nod, relaxes his fingers when he feels Derek’s palm curl around the back of his knuckles, and then Derek’s fingers are linked with his own, holding Stiles steady and firm, even as Stiles feels like he's shaking apart, that he could shatter into pieces and be lost because Derek is ruining him from the inside out.

“Right here, Stiles, I'm right here," Derek assures him, sounding gutted and panting heavily by Stiles’ ear. He holds onto Stiles’ hip with his free hand and Stiles can feel the bruises but that's good, that’s so very good, Derek isn't letting him go anywhere.

And Stiles thinks that this is _right_ , as Derek’s hips snap into him over and over until Stiles is sobbing, knees sliding up the mattress with the force of each thrust. This feels perfect and right and he thinks _this is it_ , no more misunderstandings tearing them apart, at least not on this and yes, there will probably be times when they break each other and ruin what they’ve managed to build up but they'll make it right, because this is them, this is everything. Derek's mouth is open and wet against his cheek and there isn't any place that they aren't touching, and he can feel the rapid thud of Derek’s heart slamming against his spine, making little sparks of electricity break across the skin. And Derek is whispering, yes, yes, Stiles you're so good, you're everything, and Stiles wants to say it back but doesn't know how.

Derek's hand slides around Stiles’ hip, lower and then his hand curls around Stiles’ cock, straining against his stomach and Stiles shouts because _oh god_ , he almost forgot how that felt, Derek’s hand pulling him hard and fast and it's matching the rhythm of his thrusts and it's too much, too much and Stiles is coming with a broken sob, muscles spasming as he shakes in Derek’s arms.

He can't seem to hold himself upright, as his body shudders through the come down, leaving him loose limbed and helpless. Derek slows down for him, not pushing as deep as he lets Stiles handle the aftershocks but Stiles doesn't want Derek to stop, doesn't want to stop feeling the twist of pleasure-burn and so he shoves his hips back with the last bit of will that he can muster.

Derek growls in sharp warning, his hand clamping hard on Stiles’ hip and forcing him still.

“Don't stop,” Stiles chokes, because he thinks that Derek needs to hear him.

He can feel Derek panting hard against his shoulder, the wet spiky edges of his hair prickling against his skin. And then Derek is fucking him, for real now and oh god, Stiles hadn't realized that he had been holding back before, as Derek’s hips surge against him and Stiles cries out, falls to his elbows.

“No, no,” Derek grits out, fingers digging into his hips and Stiles almost leaps out of his skin because there are _claws_ involved there. “Just a little more Stiles, please, I need-“

Stiles nods, mouth agape and saliva gathering against the insides of his lips. He manages to push back up to his hands, even as the muscles scream in his lower back and this is going to hurt so much when it’s over. But Stiles doesn't even care. He thinks, dimly, that he may even want it, may want that reminder of how much Derek had wanted him.

And he does now, slamming almost violently into Stiles, grinding in at the hilt each time and Stiles just lets Derek take what he needs. Derek makes a choked sound and says something that Stiles doesn't understand and he means to tilt his head back and look over his shoulder to see if Derek is okay, or maybe coming because he wants to see Derek’s face when he does-

But then there are teeth in the back of his neck, right below where his neck and shoulder meet and they are sinking into his skin with _purpose_. Not sharp teeth, no thank god, but they _hurt_ and Derek keeps Stiles neck caught between his teeth as he keeps fucking him, quick short thrusts and almost animalistic and Stiles arches his neck, wide-eyed and gasping out wordlessly, unable to move even as he scrabbles at sheets.

And then Derek is coming, teeth breaking through the skin and Stiles can't help but scream as Derek gives a strangled shout and stills.

Stiles feels like he is vibrating out of his skin. And the room is too loud, buzzing in his ears and the ceiling spins and morphs above him. He feels Derek pull his teeth free, and Stiles hisses at the sharp swell of pain. But he's too high on post-orgasm endorphins to focus on it, and his throat feels full of cotton and he’s sluggish all over, drooping into the mattress.

Derek splays his hand wide over Stiles’ chest, catching his weight as he murmurs behind Stiles’ ear. He eases out of Stiles slowly and there is a terrible ache in his absence, too empty and stretched open and Stiles can't help but quiver as he curls into the sheets. He feels small and fragile but good, so very good, and he is so grateful that Derek doesn’t _go_ , that he sinks down on the ruined sheets beside him and curls his body around him, arms and legs caging him in.

Derek is breathing soft and easy against his neck, and Stiles can barely hear his own thoughts over the wild thud of his own heart, slamming in his chest as he tries to calm down, tries to give in to the sleep pushing through his brain, thick like warm water.

Derek’s tongue eases over the broken flesh at the back of his neck, and the wound flares to life, skin hot and tight. He is vaguely aware of the slick slide beneath Derek’s tongue and he thinks, possibly, that he might be bleeding, that Derek might have actually broken the skin.

“Crazy werewolf,” he slurs, a lazy smile curling over his mouth. “Never even asked.”

He feels Derek tense immediately, and then his arms are loosening on Stiles’ waist as if he means to pull away and Stiles can almost _feel_ the guilt wrap itself around Derek, cloaking him in that dark silence of _regret_.

Stiles reaches back quickly and clutches at Derek’s hip, holding him firmly in place.

“You know I like it,” Stiles tells him softly.

It takes a moment and Stiles waits, because he’s too tired and exhausted to twist around or say more. But then Derek relaxes slowly, and his arm tightens around Stiles’ waist once more, pulling him back against him as he tangles their legs together.

“Thank you,” he says, a soft breath ghosting across the sensitive skin below Stiles’ ear.

Stiles sighs, content and happily sated even though he’s sticky and gross and they’re both covered in sweat and come. He knows that Derek will probably wander around in his own thoughts for a while longer but Stiles needs to sleep, can’t fight it back anymore. He wants to tell Derek that he loves him, because it’s true and it’s what he’s wanted to say for days now, what he wanted to say that day on the porch and he doesn’t want to hold back any longer, doesn’t feel afraid to speak it now. But he knows what people say about having sex, that what is said during sex or maybe even afterwards doesn’t count and Stiles doesn’t want Derek to think that about him now, that’s it’s just the post-orgasm lassitude filling his brain and making his tongue loose.  He wants Derek to _believe_ him.

So he pushes the thought away, for another time, because they have plenty of it, after all. They have all the time in the world.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. :)  
> See you at the next installment!


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